Why shuns he now the noon-tide glare,
Inur'd to whirling dust, and scorching heat?
Ceases the Warrior-vest to wear
In which he us'd, with graceful air,
Aspiring Youths, all emulous, to meet?
Why is it now no more his pride
To rein the ardent horse with agile arm?
With new-strung sinews to divide
The yellow Tyber's angry tide,
When the tempestuous showers its rage alarm?
Why hates he, as the viper's gore,
The Wrestler's oil, that supples every vein?
Why do we see his arms no more
With livid bruises spotted o'er,
Of manly sports the honorable stain?
'T was his to whirl, with matchless skill,
The glancing quoit, the certain javelin throw,
While Crowds, with acclamations shrill,
The lofty Circus joy'd to fill,
And all the honors of the Day bestow.
Such fond seclusion why desire?—
Thus Thetis' care her blooming Son conceal'd,
Ere yet commenc'd that Contest dire,
When mournful gleam'd the funeral pyre,
Thro' ten long years, on Ilium's purpled field.
In vain the female vest he wore,
That Love maternal might avert his fate;
Lest his spear drink the Lycian gore,
Lest sinking Troy his force deplore,
And Death with Glory meet him at her gate.
TO [1]THALIARCHUS.
BOOK THE FIRST, ODE THE NINTH.
In dazzling whiteness, lo! Soracte towers,
As all the mountain were one heap of snow!
Rush from the loaded woods the glittering showers;
The frost-bound waters can no longer flow.
Let plenteous billets, on the glowing hearth,
Dissolve the ice-dart ere it reach thy veins;
Bring mellow wines to prompt convivial mirth,
Nor heed th' arrested streams, or slippery plains.